


Jingleporn

by Red



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Hand Kink, Holidays, M/M, Morning Sex, the first annual irregulars nativity, victorian husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I apologize about the title, it's what happened six years ago and it stuck. Watson tries to get into the holiday spirit a bit, despite the usual festive blowfly collection on the kitchen table; Holmes gets into the spirit of morning sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jingleporn

In my years of acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes--intimate or otherwise--I have long known that he has, at best, only enough of a concept of Christmas spirit in order to humour me. 

The first Christmas we spent together, Holmes seemed mostly confused by the sudden appearance of trees and candles in our rooms, as if he had never even seen such a thing; the next brought forth a more agitated man who spent the greater part of the season scraping away at his violin with tunes he knew quite well I disliked, refusing to acknowledge the holiday in either word or deed. Once Holmes and I came to the more intimate relationship we share now, however, he began to at least tolerate the holiday, and would condescend to undertake such conventional and irrational activities as buying gifts for myself and Mrs. Hudson. 

Nevertheless, though he would now bear without comment the yearly introduction of evergreens into his living quarters, I knew Holmes could not be said to honestly enjoy the season. I did not feel overly guilty in forcing Christmas upon him, however, as I have long thought it rare for him to indulge me in our public life. I personally am fond of the holiday and was never prepared to concede to Holmes' desire to make it disappear from the calendar--a number of inane greetings to members of Scotland Yard and a few servings of Christmas goose seemed more than fair in trade for a year of missed dinners and rude awakenings at four in the morning. Given the history of Holmes' attitude towards Christmas, therefore, it would be an understatement to say that I was surprised when, one Christmas morning, he seemed to fully embrace the holiday. 

When I had gone to bed that Christmas Eve, Holmes had seemed his usual dismissive self towards the holiday--and to me. He had been spending the greater part of the evening working on a monograph regarding the life-cycle of blow-flies, and when I parted from him to head up to my room that night (having despaired of the possibility that my friend may take more interest in me than in _calliphoridae_ ), he was still writing. I did not take it too personally that Holmes was so absorbed in his work; after all, he is the man that he is. While we are both apt to exaggerate his logical nature or his disregard for the softer emotions, and although there have been a number of instances in which he has been--despite his own better judgment--far more interested in my person than in a given case, Holmes is still very much the man I have described in my public accounts. 

As I prepared for bed, however, I thought eagerly on how to best maximize the festive spirit of the following day. After the manner in which he had so coolly shrugged away from my good-night embrace and my perhaps overly ardent mouth on the back of his slim neck, I was sorely tempted to pay his Irregulars to come by and carol for an hour or three. I do accept Holmes as he is, but it is rare that I am given a chance to properly torment him. Besides, no man can truly abide being snubbed by his lover for an evening in with maggots. Although my room was quite cold for the December air, I fell asleep that Christmas Eve warmed by an admittedly child-like excitement for the following day. 

I awoke certain I was still dreaming. 

While Holmes and I had been involved sexually for some time, he was (and is) still most likely to awake me at an early hour with a shake and a demand I be dressed in less time than honestly possible. It was not at all common to be awoken in such a pleasant fashion. 

Holmes was under the covers behind me, his face hot against my neck. By the time I was fully aware of my surroundings, he had already pulled my nightshirt well above my hips and his warm palm was rubbing idly over my half-erect prick. Almost believing this to be a pleasant Christmas morning surprise from my own dreaming mind, my first reaction was to reach behind myself and press a hand against his body, to make certain that Holmes was indeed in my bed. Where my fingers brushed against the back of his thigh, his skin was still slightly chill from the morning air. 

He chuckled softly against my neck, the caress of air eliciting the predictable response in the flesh he held. "Ah, I see you're fully with me now, Watson," he murmured. 

"And I assure you, I am quite... present," and here he tightened his grasp on my erection, "Although I must confess, I am quite flattered that you dream enough of such scenarios to necessitate you confirm the fact." 

I laughed and dragged my hand upwards from his thigh to caress a muscular buttock. I was now pressing my prick into his grip with interest, but still did not turn towards him, comfortable in his intimate hold. 

"You flatter yourself, Holmes," I spoke, voice still rough from sleep. "Perhaps I had been dreaming of Lestrade." 

He snorted with amusement, and continued rubbing my cock in a lazy rhythm. "Please, Watson. Is it not some grievous sin to lie on this Christmas Day of yours? Especially about something as outlandish as Lestrade." 

Shifting his body more tightly against my own, Holmes threaded his left arm underneath my neck to press his hand firmly against my chest. Where I had been contentedly lethargic and languidly enjoying his actions before, I was now much more keenly interested, and I cursed under my breath to feel the evidence of his own arousal hard against my backside. I had just awoken, but Holmes knew well how I enjoyed to be handled, and was making swift work on my morning erection. With his grip so firm and almost business-like, and with the way he was beginning to rut his hips against my buttocks in a promise of even more sordid acts, I knew I could not last long. Knowing this, I pushed the covers down off of us--besides, I was more than warm enough without them. 

I bit my lip as he drew his thumb roughly over the crown of my prick, and, thinking of little else than my own pleasure, I reached my own hand down to join his. His fingers, when they brushed against mine, were already slightly slick. Moving my leg to afford him a better view, I began pumping the base of my shaft while his long fingers played with the tip. He muttered something lowly in approval when, feeling as if I would go mad from arousal, I reached lower and began pressing a finger into myself. 

I twisted in his arms to press a rough kiss against his cheek. "Were... Were I you," I faltered, so close was I to my release, "I shouldn't be so certain. Even your own brother would be more welcoming than you were last night. I may be tempted away by some cad with a sprig of mistletoe, if you are not careful."

"You'd make a terrible ingenue, my dear Watson," he replied. I was thinking idly of responding, but, with a bite to my shoulder through the disheveled nightshirt, he clasped me tighter. His breath was harsh against my ear, and I knew he was also much moved as he whispered roughly, "Enough of this, Watson. You are more than ready--let go, so that I can have you properly." I shuddered in his arms to hear him speak so, and I worked my hand more quickly between my legs to frantically frig myself in rhythm with his actions. I knew he simply preferred having the last word, but he was offering a very sweet reward in exchange for it. So, saying nothing else but his name, I stiffened against him and released across the bed sheets. "Ah, Watson..." I heard him breathe. I was filled with a deep lassitude, and did not reply, instead laying there limp and damp with sweat.

For a short time, Holmes nuzzled the back of my neck while I caught my breath, his hand still gently holding my waning prick, and I felt I could not be any more content than I was at that moment. Feeling his unsatisfied erection pressing against me, however, soon had me ready to turn to him and enjoy this rare Christmas greeting further. I rolled carefully to my knees beside him, so as to avoid the rapidly-cooling issue on the sheets, and bent over to kiss him thoroughly. He responded with passion, pulling me by the shoulders closer to him, and thrusting his tongue deeply into my mouth. When he parted from me to pull my nightshirt off, it was with a soft bite to my lower lip. Holmes was already nude and quite aroused, cheeks flushed and eyes avid. 

"You want to fuck me," I stated, knowing that in his state, he would likely be furious with any delay. And, indeed, as he attempted to sit up, he predictably retorted, "Yes, Watson, and I'll thank you not to state the obvious and let us get on with it." I pressed him down--although Holmes is far stronger than he looks, I know his body intimately, and can pin him with ease. 

"You did not seem so ardent last night. You are certain you would not rather spend more time with those flies of yours?"

He only smirked, and struggled against me. We tussled pleasantly, and, as I was truthfully looking forward to the prospect, he soon shrugged my hold and knocked me on my back, switching our positions. When he went to kneel over me, he intentionally brushed his cock against my side, knowing that this and his surprising strength immobilizing me on the bed would easily grant him my submission. Satisfied, he reached to the nightstand for the salve we kept hidden there. As he did, he said warmly, "Poor old Watson. I do not mean to test your patience so. Ah!" 

Holding up the jar with the sort of theatrical flourish typical of him, he knelt between my legs, and proceeded in liberally coating his slim fingers. I drew my legs apart as he did this, and soon he pressed two heavily-lubricated digits in me with ease. I could not deny that the knowing smile which graced his face was entirely justified--I was indeed quite eager for his attentions. He prepared me thoroughly, but with that air of masterful efficiency which so often surrounds all of his actions, and was soon smoothly guiding my legs to rest on his hips. As he slowly pressed his solid prick into me, he brushed his hand affectionately against my face. 

"Never doubt," he spoke, sounding far more collected than I should ever hope to be in his position, "That while the flies are quite a matter of interest, they are not half as intriguing as you, Doctor." 

Although his words were half-jesting, I was deeply touched by them--it is rare for Holmes to be even that transparent about his emotions. I tilted my head slightly and brought his hand to my lips, kissing the palm, then drawing a finger into my mouth. His breath hitched somewhat, and he seemed to only draw his hand away with a great deal of reluctance. Then, with both hands he gripped my hips firmly, and began thrusting with intent. 

All of my senses were overwhelmed with the intensely erotic presence of that beautiful and strange creature I love. Panting beneath him, I could almost taste the sweat that was beading across his flushed skin, and the smell of my release mingled intoxicatingly in the air with that scent of smoke and chemicals which always accompanies him. His eyes were closed as he took me with a single-minded determination, and I relished the sight of his angular features being transformed so. I gazed down his body, at the tendons that stood out on his pale neck, at the flex of muscles in his sinewy arms and lean abdomen, at the trembling of his hands so tightly clasped against my own body. 

We were, out of habit and necessity, always quiet during sex. However, in that perfectly still morning hour, the sound of our breathing, and of Holmes' hips striking against me, seemed alarmingly loud. And of course, there was that irresistible thrusting, that feeling of being so completely taken by Holmes. While there was an undeniable energy in our first couplings, there is something even more to be said for having a lover that knows one quite well. His thrusts brought the firm drag of his prick against my prostate every time, and he snapped his sharp hips with just enough force to bring a subtle and exquisite bloom of pain across my backside. 

He was close, I could tell from the hitch in his breathing. If he had snuck in to my room to awake me as he did, it was more than likely he had been aroused the greater part of the morning. Slowly, I shifted our position to rest my legs on his shoulders, instead; it is a position that can prove trying to my old wound, but that brings such pleasure to the both of us. His rhythm faltered once and he gasped at the change, while I swore beneath him, feeling impossibly filled with his demanding sex. I pressed my hands against his buttocks to encourage his wild thrusts, and, clenching his prick in my body, I playfully repeated his earlier words to him. "You are more than ready, Holmes." 

With a low moan, he thrust his cock deeply in my arse a few more times, and then held himself taut and still above me as he came. Feeling him jerk within me, I shuddered--it was far too soon since my release to become physically aroused again, but it was erotic and satisfying nonetheless. I was still for some time beneath him as he lay pressed against me, waiting for his breath to return to normal. All too soon, however, my leg reminded me that had I truly been planning to engage in athletic couplings with another man at my age, I should not have gone off to India in my youth. With a wince, I pushed at Holmes and lowered my limbs to rest, and, though I did not desire it, this motion caused his softening prick to slip from me. Holmes scarcely stirred, but at my disappointed groan, I imagined him smiling against my chest, where he rested. As the sheet was already a loss, I idly used it to clean the both of us, knowing that Holmes would not stir for a few moments yet. 

I carded my fingers through his soft black hair, blessedly free of lime-cream at this hour. He sighed once, softly; one of his unique noises that sounded less like a true sigh and more as if he were inhaling deeply to capture the scent of our release. We rested for a time, my only movement the caress of Holmes' hair, and Holmes' a gentle and near-apologetic massage of my offending thigh. Were we entirely different men altogether, or were Holmes one of those women I have lain with in the past, I may have said something of my affections to him at that moment. I was content, however, with the knowledge that he already knew well enough anything I may think of saying, and that any words at this moment would be wholly unnecessary.

As was typical of Holmes, I had just become used to his immobility when he suddenly surged into action. With an unexpected burst of energy, he had lifted himself off of me, risen from the bed, and had grabbed a small parcel that was hidden beneath his dressing gown beside my door before I could even conceive of him moving. He perched on the mattress, impatiently shoving the package at me.

"Come, Watson. I do not wish to endure your holiday long."

I sat up slowly next to him, and ignored the package to grope at him playfully. "But we have all day, Holmes," I reminded. He lithely twisted away, and sat again out of my reach. With a shake of his head, he pressed the present towards me once more. "I am not going suffer all day from your annual fit of childhood nostalgia. Now open your gift, before I regret the day I ever mentioned needing a roommate to that Stamford."

Laughing, I took the gift from him. It did not take being Sherlock Holmes to tell what it was--in all of our Christmases and birthdays together, we had developed a sort of laziness towards the element of surprise that is typically common of gift-giving. Living intimately together meant that there were few places to properly hide a present in Baker Street, and having been acquainted so long meant we often knew well what the other was thinking. This year, his gift was still wrapped in the brown paper and twine from the bookstore. Unwrapping it, I was unsurprised, but still pleased, to find a handsome journal. Just as well--I had purchased for him an amount of tobacco, and I was glad it would not be like the Christmas two years ago, when we had each bought the other a dressing gown. I put the gift aside and kissed him. "Thank you, Holmes," said I.

"Hum. I rather think you insist upon this ridiculous tradition just to save money on paper for your little accounts."

"As our expenses are shared, I can hardly see where that is the case. Your work buys me paper with or without Christmas."

"And a fine kept man you make, at that," he quipped, standing again from the bed. "If it is all the same to you, I shall open that tobacco you purchased on the twenty-second when I run out of what I have. Despite what you may wish, the blow-flies shall not stop growing for it being Christmas." 

I watched him with some interest as he shrugged back into his dressing-gown, his long limbs pale and graceful in the morning light. "If you have not purchased something for Mrs. Hudson," said I as he ran a hand through his hair to straighten it before leaving, "I should think the sudden absence of that half-decayed pig foot would be a welcome enough gift." 

He fixed me with one of his imperious looks as he turned to leave. "It is under a bell-jar," he sniffed, "And, as she approached it close enough to put holly upon the glass, I cannot see where she has any right to complain."

With that, he closed the door and left me to sit amused and slightly bewildered, alone in my bed. 

***

Perhaps, having known well how Holmes felt about the holiday, I should have expected what I would discover in the sitting room when I descended after dressing. Content with Holmes' sudden change in mood, and still enjoying the warm ache of my body from our morning exertions, I had lain for some time in bed after he left, dozing and savoring the fact that there were no demands on me to be about this day. It had been fairly early that morning that he woke me, and by the time I had finally bathed and dressed, I should say that two hours had passed since he had left my room. 

I did not expect anything different of our sitting room. Most certainly, I did not expect to see what I did: nothing of the decorations that had been there the previous night.

"Holmes," I said, at once dumbstruck and frustrated. "What has happened here?"

Holmes did not deign to look up from the morning paper. "Whatever do you mean, Watson?"

"I mean," I protested, "That you cannot... You cannot toss out the tree on Christmas morning!" 

Still not looking up, he waved a hand dismissively at me. "Last year, as well as the one before that, you made many complaints to the effect that the tree was left up well beyond what was proper. I was merely saving you from another year of such intolerably out-of-season greenery." 

I opened my mouth to say something more, but, knowing what was to come out was hardly going to be in any way productive, I stopped myself. Instead, I sat beside him and took a section of the paper. Holmes looked over at me, then. He was no doubt suspicious about being let off so easily--it was not in my nature to allow him to get away with such showman-like pranks in our personal life.

Taking a sip of tea, I just smiled at him.

Wiggins would make an excellent Joseph in this year's nativity, I reckoned, and I was most curious to see what Holmes would make of the feral cats his Irregulars would cast as sheep.


End file.
